Evidence and Investigation
by inkstainedfingers97
Summary: Angela didn't know exactly what had caused her friend to decide to go to Guatemala to look at bones for a month a mere two weeks after Booth had been released from the hospital. But she could guess. Post ep for 4x25.
1. Chapter 1

Spoilers: Goes AU after Season 4 finale - anything before that is fair game.

Rating: Teen

Disclaimer: If I could make money off this, I would have paid my student loans off by now.

Part One: Angela

She was on time, for once. Early, even. And the arrivals board was working, so there wasn't even any need to flash anyone for information. The flight from Guatemala was on time.

She figured ten minutes for the plane to land, ten minutes for everyone to deplane. Brennan, though she'd been gone nearly four weeks, would be among the first off the plane, and she wouldn't have to stop at the baggage claim. She traveled light—clean underwear, a toothbrush, and maybe an ancient skull or two, that was Brennan's style. She'd probably be disgustingly awake, too. Brennan didn't seem to be affected by jet lag the way normal people were, though knowing her friend it was probably a function of her refusal to allow pesky things like normal biorhythms to prevent her from examining the next waiting 500 year old skeleton rather than any particular biological superiority she had over the rest of us mere mortals. Still, Angela thought she'd have another twenty minutes before Brennan turned up, so she sat down and took out her sketch pad, thinking she might as well draw for a few minutes while she waited.

She loved airports. She loved the shapes, the colors, the emotions. So much activity, so many real live people all in one place, going to a thousand different places. But when she put her pen to paper, she found herself sketching not the outlines of strangers, but the oh so familiar figure of her best friend, sitting hunched over her work, a look of intense concentration on her face.

Angela paused. This was, in fact, a far cry from Brennan's expression the last time she had seen her. The determined set of her chin was the same, but the concentration, on that occasion, had been replaced by a flicker of fear in those startlingly blue eyes of hers. Angela was often reminded, when Brennan was confronted with some significant emotional event in her life, of a caged bird attempting to escape an enclosed space, beating her wings in a blind panic.

Of course, Angela didn't know exactly what had caused her friend to decide to go to Guatemala to look at bones for a month a mere two weeks after Booth had been released from the hospital. But she could guess.

Here's what she did know: Brennan had been scared spitless during Booth's surgery, and turned to a pale ghost while Seeley had been in a coma for four days. She staged her own marathon bedside vigil which no nurse or doctor or Angela had been able to convince her to abandon for more than the time it took to keep herself clean and eat two bites of a meal someone might have brought her. And after he'd been released, she'd all but moved in with him to take care of him during his recovery, fussing over him like June fucking Cleaver meets Florence Nightingale. Angela had even seen her fluffing Booth's pillow, for God's sake, spouting some techno speak about supporting the lumbar region being crucial to spinal alignment or some such nonsense. Like that had anything to do with recuperating from brain surgery. And then, bam, once Booth was up and about and reasonably able to take care of himself, Brennan had suddenly managed to be contacted by some human rights project that desperately needed her technical assistance in a faraway land asap, blah, blah, blah.

Something had happened in the hospital that had freaked Brennan out, Angela was sure of it. The first time she'd gone to see Booth after he'd woken from surgery, Brennan had had this look in her eye that Angela did not like. She didn't know what it meant, but she knew it wasn't good.

She was pretty sure something else had happened between the time Booth was released and the time Brennan left the country, but she was damned if she had the faintest idea what that was all about. She'd be willing to bet that it was huge, though. A Booth and Brennan left standing at the altar together times a thousand kind of freakout, that kind of huge. And next thing she knew Booth was wandering around the lab and the halls of the FBI looking like a lost puppy and Brennan had taken flight. Even more disturbing, Booth hadn't insisted on being the one to pick Brennan up from the airport. Usually he got antsy when Brennan was out of town, practically bouncing off the walls in anticipation for her to get home, and he'd always make up some excuse at the last minute about needing to talk to Bren about a case and announce to the entire Jeffersonian staff that he was going to pick her up from the airport. This primarily being for Angela's benefit, since she didn't see Cam or Hodgins checking the flight status updates in anticipation of Brennan's arrival. And then Booth would show up at the airport and whisk her away to eat Chinese take out and argue about things that drove the rest of them crazy.

She flipped back to an earlier page in the sketch book and found one she'd done of Brennan a couple of months ago. It was one of the best she'd ever drawn of her friend, actually, and she was thinking of giving it to Booth as a gift some time, if he caught her in the right mood. It was a portrait, head and shoulders. She'd done it of Brennan just looking straight out at the viewer, with that look she had when you told her something important- the set of her full mouth indicating she wasn't about to bullshit you on anything, but those piercing blue eyes of hers full of compassion that would somehow get lost in translation the minute she opened her mouth.

She looked at the picture wistfully. Sometimes she forgot how beautiful Brennan was. Seriously, Roxie aside, she was like 72 percent straight, but there had been a time when she'd been a little bit in love with Brennan, back when they'd first met in college.

It had been a bad time for Angela. She hated school, was failing half her classes, daydreamed about being an artist but was scared shitless she didn't have what it would take to make it professionally. Her boyfriend had… hurt her, and Brennan had saved her. Literally. She'd thought the other girl was all talk when it came to her boasts of the various martial arts training she'd gone through her first two years on her own, but it had turned out that even at 19, Brennan had a hell of a drop kick.

Angela had noticed her a couple of weeks before that point, always sitting under the same tree, reading, completely unaware of people playing Frisbee or afternoon beer pong or making out near her. She'd never seen anyone so focused in her life.

After a couple of days of passing her like that, Angela finally walked up to her. "So, what are you reading?"

Brennan had looked up at her, a little confused at being interrupted. She assessed Angela for a moment, then responded, "The American Journal of Forensic Anthropology."

"Wow," Angela had said. Then she paused. "I have no idea what that means."

"Forensic Anthropology is the application of the science of physical anthropology and human osteology in order to learn about what someone's life was like after they are already deceased."

Angela waited. "Yeah, still nothing."

Brennan looked down. "I find most people our age are not very interested in this subject matter and tend to find it rather disturbing. I will not be offended if you prefer not to discuss it further."

"Hey, I might find it interesting if I had any idea what you just said," Angela told her. "Do you want to explain it to me over a cup of coffee?"

She looked up at Angela, surprise etched on her face. "You want to have coffee with me?" she said uncertainly.

Jeez, Angela had thought. She acted like the last kid to be picked for the kickball team, expecting to be the butt of a cruel joke. "Yeah, I think it would be fun, don't you?" She'd always sucked at kickball, herself.

"I suppose," Brennan said dubiously.

So they went, and talked for four hours, and the next day Brennan had come to the art studio where she'd been doing her work and looked at her portfolio.

Angela had been nervous, which was not very like her, but somehow Brennan's opinion suddenly seemed more important than her tight ass art professor's.

Brennan hadn't said anything at all for fifteen tortuous minutes, poring over every sketch in Angela's portfolio with the same single minded concentration she had devoted to the 'American Journal of Forensic Anthropology.'

After an eternity or two had passed, she finally looked up. "These are very good, Angela."

Angela let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "You really think so?"

Brennan frowned. "Of course. Why would I say they were if I didn't think so? I am not given to hyperbole."

Angela had laughed, partly in relief and partly in pure delight at the serious expression on her new friend's face. "You're really not, are you?" And after knowing her for a day, she'd known Temperance Brennan was not the type to soften the truth to spare someone's feelings. If she had thought the sketches and paintings were crap, she damn well would have said so.

"You're very talented," Brennan told her matter of factly. "You are clearly highly skilled at the technical aspects of drawing. Your figures are anatomically accurate and your structures are in perspective. Also, your abstract work is emotionally compelling, and I find your use of color very interesting."

The praise had gone straight to Angela's heart and filled her up as though with so much gold. This girl was saying her work was emotionally compelling with all the expression of a cold fish, but she believed her. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "It means a lot to hear you say that."

Brennan looked confused. "Why? I am merely stating a fact."

Angela fidgeted. "I really want to be a professional artist, you know. But it seems like such a cliché, you know? Girl goes to college, doesn't know what she wants out of life, so decides she's going to be an artist, but then can't make it out there in the real world. You know what I mean?"

Brennan looked at her like she was speaking Swahili. "No."

"I mean, the professional art world is hard core competitive. You have to be amazing to even have a hope of supporting yourself with your own original work. I'm not sure if I have what it takes. Sometimes I think I should just play it safe and draw advertisements for magazines or something."

"Well, that would be a waste of your talent," Brennan said firmly. "I think you have what it takes. You merely have to know what you want and how to get there, and then apply yourself to achieving that goal."

"Yeah… I'm not so great with the goal setting though. Or the achieving the goals part. I'm kind of failing half my classes right now."

And two weeks later, Brennan had convinced her not to drop out of school—"Our society places a high value on higher education, how can you expect anyone to take you seriously as a professional artist if you don't have your degree?" She helped her pass her biology midterm, convinced her to take a computer programming class when Angela had told her she was interested in new media design, and kicked Philip's ass when she'd walked in on them. She made Angela go to the police and deal with the whole thing when Angela frankly would have preferred burying her head under her quilt and eating nothing but Chunky Monkey ice cream for five days- "Rationally, the only way to prevent men like him from hurting another woman is to make sure he is punished for the way he has treated you."

Brennan was the first non-flaky, non-artist friend she'd ever had. After knowing her for two weeks she'd known she could count on her like she'd never counted on anyone in her whole life, not even her own father, who was wonderful and loving and hardly ever around. Known she was the kind of person who would fly across the country to the desert at a moment's notice to look at a skull because Angela sounded edgy on the phone. Was it any wonder she'd had a bit of hero worship, mixed in with a little bit of a girl crush on this amazing, invincible, beautiful woman?

That had only lasted a couple of months before Angela's illusions had come crashing down around her ears. It was Christmas time and she'd invited Brennan to hang with her and her dad, only to be brusquely declined. She'd gone off on her merry way, not thinking anything more about it, assuming Brennan had plans already with her family. But when she'd come back from her break a little early, she had stumbled across Brennan in her solitary dorm room, her head buried in her knees and her shoulders shaking slightly as she cried. Crying quietly enough to prevent anyone from hearing, even though she believed herself to be in a deserted dorm room. Angela had watched for a moment, horrified, before approaching.

She'd known Brennan was lonely, hell, the bookworm routine under the tree didn't exactly scream lively social life, but _this_. Completely isolated at the holidays, so proud she'd rather spend Christmas alone than accept a simple invitation from a friend? This was way beyond anything Angela was prepared for.

She'd gone over to Brennan and wrapped her arms around her, letting her cry it out without demanding any explanation, and two days later Brennan explained the whole awful story about her parents and Russ and uttering the words 'foster care' entirely too lightly for _that_ to be the whole story.

Angela had known then that she totally did not have what it took to really be in love with Brennan. But she knew she definitely had what it took to be her friend, so she did the first non-flaky, real artist thing she'd ever done and applied herself with some relief to the goal of loving Brennan in the much less demanding role of a best friend. Which had turned out to be perfect, in the end. Brennan could drive a person crazy, trying to love her, even when it was just as a friend. At this point, she couldn't imagine the frustration and just plain _patience_ it would take to love Brennan in a romantic, soul-consuming way. Good thing there was Booth for that. He seemed more than up for the job, testosterone laden and full of dark secrets that were somehow the perfect match for Brennan's own largely hidden past.

Briefly, she spared a thought for Hodgins and how grateful she was that he didn't have any major dark secrets besides a reassuringly normal friction with his father. How weird was it that the absurdly rich guy who liked to look at bugs all day was the most emotionally stable of all of them? Sweets, the so-called expert in emotional health, apparently had some serious childhood baggage, not to mention his weird fixation on Booth and Brennan's relationship—and okay, it was fascinating to watch, she'd grant him that, but couldn't he just watch and get turned on by it like she did instead of thinking he could get what they had by studying it? And Zack… but she didn't want to think about Zack, it was too depressing. Then there was Cam, who seemed perfectly normal on the outside but could get wound up over surprising things and smoked like a chimney after going head to head with Brennan. But Hodgins just went with the flow and dealt with death and surprise ex-husbands in a totally calm, non-judgmental way, smiling that great smile of his that just said, 'hey babe, this world is crazy and we see evidence of that every day, but damn I'm glad to be in it if you're here too.'

She sighed, because thinking of Hodgins was painful. She knew he still loved her, and that if she had any sense or truly did have a generous heart or some combination of the two, she would go back to him, but some stupid, entirely-flaky artist part of her was too cowardly to let him love her. Even though his particular brand of steady, easy-going, non-suffocating kind of love had turned out to be better for her than the crazy, consuming passion she normally went in for. Though they were definitely passionate. Just… safe, accepting passion. A slow burn, rather than a quick blaze.

"Angela?" Brennan stood before her, frowning, and Angela came out of her reverie. "What are you doing here?"

Angela closed her sketchbook and stood up to give her friend a hug. "I came to pick you up."

"That wasn't necessary," Brennan told her. "I'm perfectly capable of taking the metro or catching a cab on my own, you know."

Angela rolled her eyes. "I came to pick you up because that's what friends _do_ , sweetie. Being physically able to hail a cab has nothing to do with it."

Brennan's brow was furrowed in that way that meant she was confused, but did not argue the point. "Oh. Well, thank you. I appreciate your gesture."

Angela linked her arm with her friend's and steered her towards the exit. "So, how was Guatemala?"

Naturally this prompted a tirade about Guatemalan culture, the fascinating social customs there, and more details about Guatemalan skeletons than any sane person would ever want to know. Angela half-listened, murmuring encouragingly in all the right places.

Finally, Brennan wound down, concluding her tale with a technique she'd tried out to test the bones for contact with some obscure chemical compound or another which she was thinking about writing an article on and seeing if she could get it published by some highly prestigious academic journal or another. Then… silence.

Angela waited.

Brennan worried her lower lip with her teeth. "How's Hodgins?" she asked finally.

Angela hid a smile. She didn't know who Brennan thought she was kidding. She'd never seen a more transparent avoidance tactic. Next it would be Sweets, then Cam… then Booth, as though he were an afterthought, instead of, you know, the only thought. "He's fine. He went out on a date last night with some hot horticulturalist from, you know, the plant end of the building."

Brennan looked at her, surprised. "Really? I thought he was still in love with you."

Trust Brennan not to pull any punches. "Well, he's moving on."

Brennan contemplated this. "How does that make you feel?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't feel that great about it, but I was the one who broke things off, so I figure I don't really have a right to complain."

"Are you still in love with Hodgins?"

Angela didn't answer right away.

"Ange?"

"Yes," she said finally. "But that's not enough, not right now."

Brennan blinked at her in that owlish way of hers. "I don't know what that means."

Angela sighed. "It means, your best friend is a lunatic because she knows the best guy in the world and the thought of letting him love her gives her hives. So she's got to get her shit together before she tries to go for it again, because there won't be any redos after this."

Brennan was quiet for a very long time. "I don't think you're a lunatic," she said finally.

Angela laughed harshly. "Brennan, sometimes you and I are just way too much alike."

For once, Brennan didn't say 'I don't know what that means.' "How's Booth?"

Angela looked over at her. Guess she'd decided to forgo the pretense after Hodgins. "He's… okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Not great, but okay."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Physically, he's fine. Fully recovered. He just seems a little lost, you know? A little confused. Not so cocky. It's like he lost some of his confidence, which is so… not Booth."

"Has he been having trouble remembering things?"

Angela tilted her head to the side. "Not that I've noticed. Why?"

Brennan looked down at her hands. "It's not important."

Yeah, right. If Brennan had ever asked a question that was unimportant in her life, Angela would eat a petrie dish of Hodgins' grossest bugs for Sunday dinner.

But she didn't push it. Instead, she said, "Where am I taking you? Home or lab?"

"Lab, please."

"Sure you don't want to go home and sleep for awhile?"

"I slept on the plane."

Doesn't look like it, Angela thought to herself. Her friend had circles under her eyes that looked like she hadn't had a full night's sleep for days. Or maybe six weeks. But she didn't argue, just aimed the steering wheel in the direction of the lab.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two: Brennan

"Who are you?"

Her breath hissed out through her teeth and she stared at him like he'd struck her.

Alarmed by the look on her face, he'd sat up, clutched her arm. "Brennan? What's wrong? What'd I do?"

She exhaled again, this time out of relief. She was being foolish, to think- . He remembered her, of course he remembered her. "Nothing, Booth. You didn't do anything."

He looked down at his hospital gown. "What am I doing here?"

"You were sick, Booth. You had to have surgery."

"Surgery? But… what about Jared? Is he okay?"

"Jared's fine, Booth. He was here this morning."

"He was? Then he's not in trouble?"

Brennan wondered what kind of trouble he thought his brother could be in that would prevent him from visiting him in the hospital. "No, he's not in trouble."

Booth relaxed. "Good. That's good."

She touched her hand to his face. "Booth…" But for once, she had no idea what to say.

"Hey, Dr. B!" Hodgins' cheerful voice interrupted her reverie. "Welcome back!"

She started. She wasn't in the hospital. Hadn't been in the hospital for almost two months. She was in the lab, returning from her trip to Guatemala, and Hodgins was talking to her. "Oh—hello, Dr. Hodgins."

"We missed you around here."

"Thank you. I… missed you too," she said, awkwardly. She couldn't stop her eyes from scanning the lab, just in case Booth was lurking in the background. But she'd known, really, that he wasn't there from the minute she'd stepped into the lab. Booth didn't lurk. He put himself front and center, demanding her attention at all times.

"Did you have a good trip?" Hodgins said, and Brennan remembered that she was still having a conversation with him. Or that he was having one with her.

"Yes, I did," she said, distracted. She looked back at him. "I brought you something, actually."

He looked surprised for a moment, then grinned. "Really?"

"Yes, why would I prevaricate about something like that?" she asked, perplexed.

"No reason," he said, still smiling. "What is it?"

She took several parcels out of her bag and handed him one of them. "Here."

He tore the brown wrapping off it eagerly, reminding her of Russ at Christmastime when they were children. He held it up, examining it. "Wow, this is really cool, Dr. B. Where'd you find it?"

"In a market in Nebaj."

Angela came up behind Hodgins, peering over his shoulder. "What is it?"

He handed it to her. "It's a picture made out of the wings of the thoas swallowtail, a butterfly native to Guatemala."

"Cool."

"I have a gift for you as well, Angela."

Her eyes lit up. "Ooh, presents!"

Brennan handed her a smaller package and Angela removed the paper to reveal a large amber necklace set in an abstract silver setting. "Oh, sweetie, this is gorgeous!"

"I'm glad you like it. I got something for Cam at the same shop."

"What did you get me?" Cam said, walking up behind them. "Because if it's skeleton shaped, I'm not interested."

"Brennan brought you a souvenir from Guatemala," Angela informed her.

Cam did a double take. "Really?"

Brennan thrust the package at her, wishing this was all over with.

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan," Cam said, looking taken aback. "You really shouldn't have gone to the trouble."

"It was no trouble," Brennan said stiffly.

Cam opened her parcel and took out two lovely aquamarine earrings. "These are stunning," she said. She opened her mouth to say more, then closed it again. "Thank you."

Angela, apparently reading her mind, said, "Don't worry about it, Cam. Brennan forgets Christmas and birthdays but when she decides to get you a gift, she tends towards the extravagant. She honestly doesn't think about the money, she just tries to get you something you'll like."

Brennan's cheeks burned. She'd done something wrong, again. Cam was uncomfortable because of the amount of money she'd spent on the earrings. But she knew Cam only liked high quality jewelry, and Angela was right, the money didn't matter to her, so why was it wrong to have picked something Dr. Saroyan didn't hate? She wished Booth was there to explain it to her. He was the reason she'd decided to purchase the gifts in the first place, so it was all his fault. The last time she'd gone on a trip he'd nagged her incessantly about getting him a souvenir, and had pretended to be deeply offended when she hadn't brought one back for him. So she'd said she'd get one for him on the next trip. He'd smiled his charm smile at her. She'd wanted to know what the big deal was about getting gifts from foreign places- she could just as easily get him a gift from here, where there was more selection and where she could be certain to find something that would be of value to him. He'd rolled his eyes at her. "Because, Bones, people like getting something unique from an exotic place. It makes them feel good that you were thinking about them when you were far away."

"So, should I get gifts for everybody, then?" she'd asked, a frown furrowing her brow.

"Nah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Just for me."

She'd looked at him uncertainly, and he shook his head, smiling at her. "It'd be nice if you got a little something for the squints, Bones. They'd appreciate it." So she had. Only apparently she'd done it all wrong.

Cam took the earrings out of the packaging and held them up to her ears. "How do they look?"

"Fabulous," Angela assured her. "You know, I have this great dress that would go perfectly with those. Remind me the next time we have a formal benefit we have to go to and I'll lend it to you."

"I'll do that," Cam told her. She turned back to Brennan. "Thank you again, Dr. Brennan. It was very thoughtful of you to think of me."

"You're welcome," Brennan said, bemused.

"So who else did you get goodies for?" Angela wanted to know.

"Well, for Sweets, and Zack, and for Russ and Amy and their girls, and my Dad, and Booth and Parker."

"Man, you went all out, didn't you?" Hodgins said, apparently impressed.

"I didn't want anyone to feel left out," Brennan said uncertainly, wishing she understood why this seemed like such a big deal.

"That's really great of you, sweetie," Angela told her. "They're all going to be thrilled that you thought of them."

Brennan nodded curtly. "If you'll excuse me, there are a few things I want to check on in my office."

Angela followed her into her office, ignoring her efforts to work. "That was really sweet of you to get gifts for everybody."

Brennan glanced up at her. "You said that. I don't see why it had to be such a big deal. I understand it's quite common for coworkers to bring back mementos to the people they work with when they come back from a trip."

Angela shook her head. "It's common for people to bring back a box of chocolates for the whole office, honey, not highly individual, extremely expensive gifts."

Brennan looked at her, confused. "But Cam doesn't eat chocolate, and it was very hot in Guatemala—chocolate wouldn't have traveled well."

"I know, sweetie, I'm just saying, Cam was just surprised, that's all."

Brennan looked at her friend imploringly. "But why? I thought I was doing the right thing by including her."

"You were," Angela said soothingly. "It's just—you and Cam aren't close, so she was caught a little off guard that you got her something so expensive."

"But what does that have to do with it?" Brennan said, frustrated. "I'm supposed to assign a monetary analogue to each relationship I have and only spend accordingly?"

"Actually, yes, that is what you're supposed to do," Angela sighed. "Look, it's stupid, but that's the way people think. But don't worry about it, please. It was incredibly sweet of you to get something for everyone. I explained to Cam that money doesn't mean the same thing to you as it does to her and me, and she loves the earrings. You did good, sweetie."

Brennan still had doubts, but she didn't argue. "Angela, have you heard from Booth today?"

Angela, thankfully, did not look at her understandingly or examine her motives in posing the question too closely. She simply said, "I think he's in his office. I called him earlier and he said the FBI director had called him into some meeting about his clearance for field work or something."

Brennan relaxed. That made sense. Of course Booth wouldn't have been able to ignore a direct order from a superior just to meet her at the airport or surprise her at the lab. He had his own work to do, important work. Much more important than checking in on her, when of course she was perfectly able to make her own travel arrangements and get re-settled on her own.

Angela was still talking. "You should go see him. He's been missing you. He's been wandering around here like his shoes are on the wrong feet for weeks."

Brennan frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

"Metaphorically, sweetie."

"Oh." Brennan considered this. "You think I should go see him?"

"Definitely."

Brennan looked at her desk, her inbox practically overflowing. "I'd better do some work first."

"Brennan, you do know normal people would be sleeping right now if they'd been traveling as long as you have, right? No one's going to care if you take off."

That decided her. "Well, I'll just check for important messages, and then I'll head over to there to see if Booth needs anything from me. For work."

xxx

The halls of the FBI were just as she remembered.

She shook her head. Of course they were the same. There was no reason for them to have changed, unless they were renovating or redecorating, and given the state of the federal budget, that was unlikely in the extreme. She was being foolish.

She passed Sweets' office and quickened her pace. She didn't want to give the psychologist an excuse to pepper her with questions about her trip to Guatemala and her emotional reaction to Booth's recent illness. She'd give him his gift later.

A couple of agents greeted her; she nodded in acknowledgment but did not stop. She hadn't spoken to Booth in a while… was he remembering to take the proper medication? She should have called more often to make sure, he could be so careless about things like that. Of course, nothing could have really gone wrong in the past few days, someone would have told her. He was fine, Angela had said so. There was absolutely no logical reason to worry.

She breathed out an involuntary sigh of relief as she entered his office and saw him sitting behind his desk, looking perfectly healthy, if a bit confused by the file he was poring over.

He looked up when she came in and his face lit up, in that way it did sometimes. It was illogical to think that he looked that way just for her—naturally an individual's facial expressions weren't particularly designed for only one other person—but sometimes it _seemed_ that way.

He smiled that Booth grin—not quite the charm smile, he wasn't trying to get anything from her, he was just happy to see her—and she smiled back, because he made it so easy to smile, almost effortless. She could, after all, admit to herself, at least, that she was happy to see him, too.

"Bones!" He jumped up from his chair and came around his desk to engulf her in a hug, and in a split second she was relieved because he'd called her Bones (although of course it was ridiculous to have been afraid of him greeting her by her own name, even a diminutive form of it) and then alarmed, because he didn't usually hug her like this.

Well, that wasn't strictly true, she corrected herself. She and Booth hugged rather often, really. More often than most partners did, she assumed, though she didn't have any data to support that conclusion. But usually… he didn't initiate the hugs. Usually she hugged him. Even if it was his suggestion, he almost always waited for her to step into his arms. And it was almost always when she was upset about something. It was like a pattern: catch bad guy, have emotionally revealing moment, turn to Booth for comfort. And he was always there to give it, to explain what she was feeling and make her feel safe.

This hug didn't feel safe. It felt like he was changing the pattern.

Calm down, Temperance, she told herself. It's perfectly normal for a friend to hug you after you've returned from a long trip. Angela had hugged her this morning and she hadn't thought anything of it. And Booth was her friend. So it was no big deal for him to be hugging her hello, even though he'd never really done that before.

And it felt nice, feeling his warm, solid chest pressed against hers, a physical reminder that he really was okay. Though of course a physical reminder wasn't _necessary_ , it... felt nice.

A little too nice. And it was lasting a little too long. She began to feel uncomfortable, acutely aware that this hello hug was much longer than their usual comfort hugs. But when she moved to back away, Booth held on, and didn't let her go. He kept her close, and pressed his lips to her temple. "I missed you, Temperance," he said softly.

The alarm returned. Kisses on the temple were definitely not part of their routine. And the way he said her name- She backed up, almost tripping in her haste to get away. "You—you did?" she said inanely.

He smiled. "I did. Did you miss me?" That wasn't his charm smile, that was his flirt smile. That also didn't feel safe.

She ignored the question. "I brought you something." She fumbled in her bag and thrust the small package at him.

"What is it?"

"It's a wooden figurine of a jaguar. The ancient Mayans saw them as a symbol of power and stealth, and even revered them as gods." And she even as she said it she thought it was odd that he didn't complain that he didn't really want her to tell him, that somehow she was supposed to know that when he asked she was obligated to refuse so he would be surprised when he opened it. But he didn't.

His eyebrow quirked upwards. "You trying to tell me something, Bones?"

"What? I… just told you," she said uncertainly.

"Never mind, Bones. Thanks. You didn't have to do that."

"Well, you nagged me so much about bringing you a souvenir the last time I went on a trip you led me to believe I _did_ have to bring you something."

His hand paused halfway through unwrapping the parcel. "Did I?"

That faint stirring of alarm came back, the same one she'd felt when he'd said, "Who are you?" And then called her 'Bren,' in this very sweet and tender and downright terrifying way. "You did, Booth. Don't you remember?"

He looked up at her quickly, and if she hadn't known him so well, she might not have noticed the look in his eyes before he covered it with another smile. "Sure, I do."

Somehow, she was not reassured.

xxx

He ended up driving her back to the lab, in the end. She'd taken a cab there, and he insisted it was no trouble.

"Don't worry about it, Bones, I could use a little break right now, anyway. Cullen's had me doing nothing but paper pushing ever since I got back."

Brennan frowned. "What? Why? Haven't you had any new cases?"

He fidgeted, and she realized he'd thrown out the comment as a deflection, not intending her to pick up on its significance. "Not lately."

She tried not to think about what he was trying to deflect and focused on the more pressing matter. "What do you mean, not lately? You haven't had any new cases since you came back to work? I find that hard to believe."

"I guess Cullen just wants me to take it easy for awhile, that's all."

"Why? Haven't you been cleared for field work?" she demanded.

He fidgeted again. "Not exactly."

Panic, again. "Why not? You're completely physically recovered, aren't you? Have you been going to your follow up appointments? What's wrong with you, that you haven't been declared fit for duty?"

"Nothing's wrong with me, Jeez. I'm fit for duty, all right? Quit worrying, I'm perfectly fine. The doctors said I'm totally fine. I could bench press a mule, I'm in that good of shape."

"Tactically, that would be very difficult to achieve. But if the doctors said you're in good physical condition, why haven't you been cleared for active field work?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

Fidget. "It's Sweets, okay? He's refusing to sign off on my little waiver form. Says he's worried about my reaction to my 'near death experience.'"

Her eyes widened. "Why?"

He avoided her gaze. "It's nothing, Bones. You know how he is. Any excuse to force me to sit in that office of his and make me talk about my feelings, blah, blah, blah."

She was confused. "What feelings?"

Booth was getting antsy. "It's not important. I just meant Sweets is on some kind of shrinky power trip, or something."

"Obviously, it is important, if he thinks you're not able to perform in the field because of it."

His jaw twitched the way it did when he was annoyed. "I told you, it's not a big deal. It's just Sweets being Sweets."

"Don't dismiss me, Booth. I'm just trying to understand what's going on. After all, you are my partner, so this affects me too."

He sighed. "Fine. If you must know… I've been having trouble remembering things."

"What things?"

"Just… things. Little things. Nothing important."

But she wondered how one would qualify memories as important. It was impossible to quantify something like that, after all.

xxx

When they got to the lab, he stopped her with a hand on her arm, just before she got out of the car. "Can I come over tonight?"

She looked at him, surprised. "Tonight?"

He looked at her hopefully. "Yeah. I could pick up some takeout, we can catch up."

She frowned. This wasn't Booth. Booth didn't ask for permission; he showed up at midnight uninvited with enough food to feed eight people and barged into her life without asking. "Catch up?"

"Yeah. You can tell me about your trip." This was also not Booth. They didn't catch up—they did everything together. And if they had been apart, they jumped into the middle of whatever came next, filling in the blanks with arguments and him teasing her about her lack of understanding of interpersonal relations.

Disconcerted, she hesitated. "All right," she said finally.

"Great! I'll be there at eight."

xxx

He beat her to her apartment. By the time she left, she'd verified the identity on a nineteenth century Ibo warrior, put together two cases from Limbo, and sent a brief missive to her frantic publisher assuring her she hadn't dropped off the face of the planet and would be able to deliver a completed manuscript to her in two months.

When she got home, he was standing outside her door, holding up a box of Chinese food and smiling his goofy happy smile.

Again, she couldn't help smiling back. "Hi."

"Hey." He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

She pulled back, frowning. He was behaving very oddly. "What was that for?"

"What? Jeez, it was just a friendly little kiss hello." He winked at her. "Like French people meeting on the street."

To her horror, she blushed. She busied herself unlocking the door to her apartment and felt Booth behind her as she entered her apartment. She dropped her bag in her bedroom, and when she returned to the living room, Booth had the containers opened and had already started eating lo mein out of the box.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Don't you want a plate?"

"Nah, that ruins the experience of Chinese take-out. Eating out of the containers is half the fun. Here, have some." He thrust the box towards her, and she hesitated. He grinned at her. "What, are you afraid I have cooties?"

"Of course not," she said automatically. "I think it's highly unlikely that you have lice, and lice aren't communicated by sharing food anyway. If I were to be concerned about sharing food with you, I would be worried about food-borne disease caused by bacteria."

He rolled his eyes. "It's an expression. Do you want some or not?"

She took the box from him and dug her chopsticks in without another word.

"So how's everyone at the lab?"

She swallowed. "Fine. Angela showed me a painting she's been working on while I was away. It's abstract, but there is something really rather arresting about it. I told her she should try to get it shown at a gallery opening, see if she can get it sold."

"Think she's going to?"

"I don't know. She seemed happy that I liked it, but she said she wasn't sure she wanted to sell it. She said she thought it might be a piece that would be happier as a gift." She shook her head. "Of course that doesn't make any sense because obviously an inanimate object such as a painting is incapable of emotions, but that's what she said."

"Is it kind of blue and red and purple?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," she said in surprise. "Did she show it to you?"

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "I liked it."

"But you don't generally care for abstract art."

"Yeah, well… I liked this one."

She couldn't think of anything to say to that. "How's Parker?"

"He's fine. He probably grew about a foot while you were gone."

She frowned. "That seems highly unlikely."

"I just mean he's growing fast, Bren."

There it was again. Bren. Hearing the name was upsetting for reasons she didn't fully understand. It was unreasonable for her to resent his use of her real name, instead of calling her by the foolish nickname she'd protested so long, however, so she didn't say anything.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three: Booth

He knew her. He did. She was Bones. Bones, who had shot him once, who had saved him from a sinking ship, who was kind to Parker and hadn't seen a popular movie since 1987. She didn't like pie, didn't believe in God, and was constantly after him to become a vegetarian. She'd seen genocide and murder and she spent her life finding justice for those who couldn't fight for themselves. He knew her smile, her laugh, her sighs. He knew her.

Only, the thing was? Ever since he'd woken up from his coma, he'd had the damnedest time remembering she wasn't his wife.

He could remember so clearly how she tasted, could vividly recall what it felt like to have her come home to him, to see her smiling at him with naked love in her eyes. He could remember exactly the joy he'd felt when she told him she loved him, and how that feeling had been so pure and simple and untainted by fear and doubt.

And that probably wouldn't have been a problem, except… well, she had noticed. Every time he slipped, and called her 'Bren,' she got this caged bird look in her eyes, and then sometimes went to Guatemala for weeks afterwards. He really didn't like it when she went to Guatemala, at least not for so long. So he should stop calling her 'Bren' so she wouldn't flee from him like hellhounds were nipping at her heels.

Sweets had noticed, too. Not because of calling her Bren, but because Booth had been foolish enough to say, as though it were an accepted fact, 'Course, when Brennan has our baby, we'll have to get a bigger place."

Sweets' eyes had widened. "I thought you decided not to inseminate Dr. Brennan."

It was the use of the word inseminate that made Booth realize his tactical error and bite back the retort that that particular ship had sailed, and that she'd already told him it was time to give up red wine.

The conflict must have been evident in his face, because Sweets narrowed his eyes. "And what do you mean, you and Dr. Brennan will need to get a bigger place?"

He'd tried to brush it off with some bullshit about Sweets misunderstanding what he said, but Sweets was like a damn terrier with a bone it wasn't about to give up for anything less than a nice juicy steak. And God help him, after a few minutes of the incessant pestering, he'd felt badgered enough to admit that he'd had some kind of dream that he and Bones were married while he'd been in the coma, and that, very occasionally, he got mixed up about whether that marriage was real. That was when he knew something was really wrong with him, because he was pretty sure that before his coma he never would have let Sweets badger him into doing anything.

And so this whole rigmarole with not being cleared for field duty had begun, and Brennan was suspicious. He remembered enough about Bones that he knew that telling her he dreamed of her being his wife would freak her out. It was just that when she looked at him a certain way, or her eyes looked bluer than normal, or her hair was sliding against her shoulders as she smiled and shook her head at him, he forgot she didn't belong to him, and called her Bren. And for some reason he didn't quite understand, she, Miss 'I don't know what that means,' seemed to have intuited the significance of that tiny mistake, and panicked accordingly.

That was the part he couldn't figure out. She'd always hated his nickname for her, but now she relaxed infinitesimally every time he called her Bones, and tensed if he called her by her real name. _Logically_ , that didn't make sense. But what the hell. She was Bones, who could figure out what she was thinking, even if it didn't have to do with some random anthropological fact that no one else on the planet had ever heard of?

Okay. Technically, if he were to be completely honest with himself, he might have an inkling why she was a bit skittish around him, and it might be somewhat related to the use of her name.

He hadn't said anything about them being married in those first few days when he'd woken up, back when he'd really, truly been convinced she was his wife. The truth was that he'd taken it as such an accepted fact he hadn't thought to say anything about it. He'd been a little confused when she'd taken him back to the apartment he'd had before they'd gotten married, but he'd remembered their jobs, and the squints, and the fact that Jared wasn't a cop who had killed someone to protect Brennan… he just hadn't remembered that they weren't married.

He had made one semi-colossal mistake, however. He'd almost given himself away. He didn't say anything that let her know he thought she was his wife… but what he had done was bad enough.

He'd been home from the hospital for a while, and Bones was scrubbing his kitchen counter with a frown at a very old stain.

He'd smiled, because that was his Bren, always so neat, ready and willing to launch into a tirade about the importance of good hygiene in the kitchen at a moment's notice. "Good luck with that one," he said with a snort. "That's been there since before I moved in to this place."

She looked at the stain, surprised. "Has it? I've never noticed it before."

He'd taken her by the hand and pulled her away. "C'mon. You made me my favorite Mac'n'Cheese. You shouldn't be cleaning up, too. I'll take care of it."

"You need to rest," she contradicted him. "You're not fully recovered. I am in perfect physical condition, and the chores of cooking and cleaning impose no physical strain on me."

He laid a finger on her lips. "Shh." Her eyes widened, but otherwise she did not react to the touch of his finger on her mouth. "My doctors said I'm perfectly fit. I think I can handle a little kitchen duty. You, on the other hand, have been working far too hard, taking care of me. And Dr. Seeley says you need a little R&R on his magic couch to fix what ails you."

She broke away from him. "You are not a doctor," she stated. "And there's no such thing as a magic couch."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "You sure about that?"

"Of course. There's no such thing as magic."

"Then how come when I sit on this couch, I am transported to a magical land of happiness, full of football, cartoons, beer, and pepperoni pizza?"

She opened her mouth to argue, but at the sight of his charm smile, she gave in and shook her head with a smile of her own. He knew she couldn't resist his charm smile. "You," she said, with that wonderful throaty laugh of hers that was one of the first things he'd loved about her, "are a ridiculous man."

"And yet," he said, tugging her hand and leading her to the sofa. "You are going to sit on this magical couch with me anyway."

"I am going to sit on this couch with you," she corrected. "But it is not in any way magical."

"Oh, yeah?" he challenged, grinning. "I may have had my brain scrambled a bit, but I'm pretty sure I remember how to bring a little magic to a nice comfy sofa like this."

"Oh, so now you're the magic one? Not the couch?" she said, arching her brow. "Logically—"

"Hey, you bring the logic, I'll bring the magic," he said, cutting her off. "That's how it works." And he leaned in to kiss her.

There could be no doubt about what he was doing. He was watching her mouth, aching to taste it. And okay, the magic only came when it was the two of them bringing it, logic be damned, but he knew it would come. He just had to touch his lips to hers, and the air would ignite around them. Presto…magic.

Only tonight, no rabbit came out of the hat. Brennan was frozen on the couch next to him, a look of horror on her face. He stopped, consternated. "What is it?"

"Booth," she whispered. "What are you doing?"

He frowned. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks… like you're about to kiss me," she said, swallowing.

He moved in again. "Well, looks like they didn't give the lady a doctorate for nothing after all," he said huskily.

She jerked her head away from him. "Why are you doing this?"

"What kind of question is that?" he demanded. "Why do you think? I want to kiss you."

She shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"What?! Aww, come on, Bren, I haven't kissed you in forever," he whined. "I miss the taste of you."

She flushed. "Booth… you are behaving very oddly."

"I'm behaving oddly? You're the one refusing to kiss a perfectly good pair of lips over here for no reason," he pouted.

She shifted awkwardly in her seat. "What about the line?"

"What line?" he said, confused.

"You said there was a line we shouldn't cross."

He had no idea what she was talking about. "Well, that's ridiculous. I can't think about lines when you're sitting next to me looking so delectable and I haven't kissed you since before I went into the hospital."

"Technically, when we kissed, I kissed you, and that was a long time ago and under extenuating circumstances."

He reached for her again. Sometimes her squinty talk made him crazy, but damn if it didn't turn him on at the same time. "Well, these circumstances seem pretty extenuating to me at the moment," he said, pulling her to him yet again.

She backed away, looking at him with alarm. "Booth," she said warningly. "I'm serious. I don't think this is a good idea. You're not acting like yourself."

He stopped. It was like he was trying to grab hold of smoke. So close, and then it wasn't there. "What's with the Ice Princess routine?" he huffed, frustrated. "Haven't I told you I'm not fooled by that? You're Iceland, remember, Bones? Cold on the outside, but a volcano underneath. But the thing is, you have to let me touch you or the volcano doesn't get to erupt."

She froze. "What did you say?"

"I said, you have to let me touch you or I'm going to go insane," he told her. "You've been running around doing this Florence Nightingale routine for ages without so much as giving me a peck on the cheek. Do you have any idea what that does to a man?"

"No, what did you say about Iceland?" she said impatiently.

"Iceland?" he frowned. "What does it matter? I was just teasing. You were so worried about people thinking you were a cold fish that one time, and I told you were like Iceland, because not everyone can see how much you have to offer underneath."

She went sheet white. "No, Booth, you never said that."

"Course I did. And you were happy when I said it, you smiled at me."

"Booth, I'm telling you, we never had that conversation. It wasn't real." She took a deep breath. "Isn't real."

"Bren—"

"Bones, Booth! You always call me Bones." She suddenly seemed like she was on the verge of tears.

"I know, Bones, okay?" he said, alarmed. "Jeez, calm down. I'm sorry, all right?"

She swiped her eyes furiously. "Why did you try to kiss me tonight?" she demanded angrily.

He stared at her, nonplussed. "Because… I wanted to."

She shook her head in denial. "Booth, this isn't you. You're mixed up, somehow. You're remembering things wrong. You're remembering things that never happened."

"What are you talking about? Of course I remember things. I remember things fine. I sure as hell remember that I've wanted to kiss you since the day I met you, Temperance Brennan," he declared, reaching for her hand once again.

She yanked her hand away as though she'd been burned and jumped up from the couch. "I have to go," she said abruptly.

"What? Why? C'mon, don't go. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have pushed if you're not in the mood. You don't have to leave." If he sounded a bit desperate, it was because… well, he was.

"I have to go," she repeated.

She'd gone to Guatemala three days later.

So now that he thought of it, yeah, that was pretty much when he'd royally screwed up.

He probably could have recovered from that debacle if only his brain hadn't gone fuzzy with relief when she came back. He kept forgetting. He reminded himself. He did. But when she was near him it all went out the window and he found himself hugging her and pressing his lips to her temple and saying her name so reverently that she was about this close to jumping out of her own skin.

Frankly, he hoped to God Sweets could figure out what the hell was wrong with his brain. He needed to get his head on straight before he did something that drove her away for good.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four: Brennan

xxx

Booth was at her apartment again.

He'd been turning up even more often than usual, lately, and she wasn't sure what to make of it. He'd stopped asking, and had started just showing up again, or inviting himself in when he brought her home at the end of the day. She didn't mind, exactly, but she didn't understand why it had recently become important to him to come over so much more frequently than he ever had before. And when he was here, he behaved… oddly. Take right now, for example. He was wandering around her apartment, picking things up and examining them like he'd never seen them before, like he hadn't been to her apartment dozens of times in the past.

She watched him warily as she cleaned up their dinner plates, tracing his fingers over a picture of her and Angela.

She joined him as he moved on to her CD collection and he picked up her old Foreigner CD. "Hot-blooded," he said absently. "I love that song."

And a pang sliced through her, that he didn't remember that moment they'd shared, that one moment of perfect peace when she'd been able to forget that someone was trying to kill her, before David had called and Booth had almost been blown up by her fridge, the two of them dancing like fools in her living room, laughing together. That had been the first time Booth had been at her place, a thousand nights ago; they hadn't known each other as well then. She'd been very upset when he'd been hurt, of course, and beyond grateful when he'd rescued her, just like he always did, but he hadn't been quite so important then. He'd been infuriating, and domineering, and more intriguing than any skeleton she'd ever examined. But he'd never been in her apartment before. Her living space, at that time, had not been suffused with memories of him, as it was now.

She remembered how she'd felt in that moment, dancing with Booth to that ridiculous song. She remembered the look on his face when she told him what she thought about jazz, like he was re-assessing everything he'd ever thought about her, grinning that half-grin that meant he was both surprised and delighted. Then he'd teased her about Foreigner, put the CD in the player and started dancing around her living room, and something about that failure to wait for permission before insinuating himself into her space had been liberating in a way she did not fully understand.

She didn't know why she'd been so surprised: he never waited for permission. That was one of the best things about Booth, she thought to herself… though it would be very unwise to ever apprise him of that fact.

Something had changed between them then, one of a thousand little things that had crept up on her without her awareness. She tried not to remember how tightly she'd clung to him when he'd saved her from Kenton, tried not to remember the feeling of him resting his forehead on her shoulder. Tried not to remember the two of them leaning on each other, the rest of the world disappearing, and knowing she was safe as long as Booth held her.

Jolting her out of her reflections and back into the present, Booth caught her hand in his and tugged her over to show her something else on her shelf. He pointed out her CD of Tibetan throat singing and asked if they could listen to it, and he didn't drop her hand.

He laced his fingers through hers as he talked about music, and she looked down at their joined hands, bemused. This is another thing they didn't normally do. Perhaps to Booth this was another thing that was like French people meeting on the street.

She should pull away. Past experience indicated that behaving in any capacity like French people meeting on the street was deeply unsettling.

But she didn't pull away. She found herself riveted by the sight of their fingers intertwined. There was something quite beautiful about that physical connection, fingers interlocked and the lines of their hands disappearing into one another. For a second she wished Angela could draw it for her, to capture that elusive beauty in permanent form. Then she decided it was probably best Angela was not there, because she was certain her friend would not understand the analogy of French people meeting on the street, and would undoubtedly make more of it than it was. Besides, she couldn't think about Angela when Booth was holding her hand.

His hand was strong and warm, and enveloped her smaller one securely.

"Bones?"

She looked up at Booth, a little dazed. "What?"

"I said, since you like jazz so much, there's this great little place in Georgetown we should go to some time to hear some live music, don't you think?"

"Sure," she said, staring at him strangely. He still held her hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And she did not pull away.

xxx

"Dr. Brennan."

Brennan hid her flinch and turned to see Sweets in the doorway to his office, smiling at her. There was no reason to flinch, of course. Flinching was a startle reflex designed to protect members of a species from predators, and the idea of her being afraid of Sweets was preposterous. Though he was quite tall, she was reasonably certain her rigorous physical training regimen would give her the competitive advantage should they ever have occasion to engage in a physical altercation. Which of course they wouldn't.

She had almost made it past his office without him noticing her. In fact, she'd successfully avoided Sweets ever since she'd gotten back from Guatemala. Why she should be so set on avoiding Dr. Sweets she had no idea, except that she would really prefer to avoid his inevitably tedious and subjective questions. He always picked and prodded at emotional issues which no rational human being would ever attempt to quantify and describe in a scientific way. "Hello, Dr. Sweets," she said stiffly.

"I'm glad to see you. I haven't seen you since you've gotten back. How was your trip?"

"It was very productive, thank you."

"Do you have a minute? I'd like to chat with you a little."

Brennan hesitated. The truth was, she did have a minute. Booth was busy with one of his cases that didn't involve rotting corpses, and she had nothing to do except wait for him to finish, as the amount of time he estimated the task would take rendered the possibility of going back to the lab to do her own work not efficacious. "Yes, all right," she said reluctantly.

He stepped back and indicated she should enter his office. She followed him in and sat down. He sat across from her, still grinning. This was only her subjective opinion, of course, but part of her really thought smiling as much as Sweets did was unprofessional.

"So tell me about your trip," he urged her.

"I was investigating a mass grave site for UNHCR," she told him. "Very interesting work, though somewhat challenging in terms of identifying victims given the lack of infrastructure and political climate encouraging the suppression of evidence unfavorable to the current government."

"Did you meet anyone cool while you were there?"

She blinked. "Live people, you mean?"

"Yeah."

She considered this for a moment. "I worked with a very interesting archaeologist from Columbia while I was there. And there was an old woman in one of the villages I stayed in who was the village healer. Her use of traditional medicines to treat common local diseases was fascinating."

"Did you do anything fun?"

"Fun?" she echoed.

"Yeah, you know, did you do anything for your own enjoyment?"

She shook her head. "I find investigating claims of genocide isn't generally conducive to an atmosphere of frivolity."

"Right," he said slowly. "I see what you mean."

She paused. "I did stop for a few minutes on my way to the market one day to listen to some street performers playing the marimba, though. They were very talented. In fact, I…" she hesitated, again. "I bought a CD from them."

"That's wonderful. It's great that modern technology allows us to relive an experience from such a far off place."

"No," she said. "I mean, I didn't buy it for myself."

Sweets digested this. "Oh. It was a gift for someone?"

"Yes. For you, actually. I bought it for you." There was no reason for her to be embarrassed about this admission, none whatsoever. Except that the experience of giving Cam a gift had been such a disaster that she couldn't be entirely sure she wasn't completely off base with this gift, as well. And Sweets was sure to read some psychological meaning into the gesture that wasn't really there.

Sweets blinked. "For me?" he repeated. "You got me a gift? From Guatemala?"

Brennan reached into her bag and yanked the case out. At least she could be rid of the damn thing. She'd been carrying it around for ages, not wanting to run into Sweets but wanting to make sure she had it with her just in case she did. She thrust the case at him, not meeting his eye. "I thought you would like it," she said awkwardly. "You have very diverse taste in musical genres and you seem to enjoy percussion instruments."

"Wow, this is awesome!" Sweets enthused, taking it and turning the case over. He examined the case with interest. "I've never heard Guatemalan music. I can't wait to listen to it." He looked up at her, meeting her square in the eye. "Thank you, Dr. Brennan," he said sincerely. "This was very thoughtful of you."

"You're welcome," she said, pleased that he liked the gift and hadn't imbued it with any secret significance.

He leaned back in his chair. "So has everything been going all right since you got back?"

"Of course," she said immediately. "Why wouldn't it have?"

He shrugged. "Both you and Agent Booth have gone through a significant emotional ordeal because of his recent illness."

"I didn't go through an emotional ordeal," she insisted.

He leveled his gaze at her. "You're telling me you had no emotional reaction when your friend and partner fell into a coma and almost died?"

"I—I suppose I did react emotionally to a certain extent," Brennan admitted grudgingly.

"Besides," Sweets continued. "I'm sure Agent Booth's memory problems have been adding a certain level of strain to your relationship."

Her head snapped up. "Booth's memory problems? You know about that?"

Sweets frowned. "Of course."

"Did he tell you about…" she trailed off, uncertain as to how to express her inquiry. Sweets would probably misinterpret her reaction to Booth's use of her nickname.

"About how he thought he was married to you?" Sweets finished for her. "Yeah, he told me."

Brennan's eyes went wide as saucers. "What?"

Off her dumbfounded expression, Sweets realized his mistake. "Oh, shit, you didn't know."

"Booth thought he and I were married?!"

"Oh my God, oh my God," Sweets said, panicked. "I am a dead man. Booth is going to kill me."

"What did he say to you?"

Sweets hesitated. "I really shouldn't discuss this with you. Doctor patient confidentiality, you know…"

"You were the one who brought it up in the first place!"

"Only because I thought you already knew!"

"That's no excuse! What did he say to you?"

"Nothing! He just mentioned that he… had a dream while he was in his comatose state in which you and him were married and owned a nightclub."

Brennan blanched. "A nightclub?"

"Yeah, crazy, huh?" Sweets shook his head. "Of all the alternate identities to fix on, who would have guessed Agent Booth would have chosen to be a nightclub owner?"

"What's so crazy about being a nightclub owner?" Brennan said defensively. "I think it makes sense that Booth would want a job that doesn't constantly put us into danger and involve people lying to him all the time. Plus, he would enjoy the lack of regimentation and personal freedom that comes from owning his own business."

"O-kaaay," Sweets said slowly. "You're not bothered that Booth dreamt of being married to you?"

Brennan feigned indifference. "Why should it bother me? People can't control what they dream about during normal sleep; I don't imagine they have any more control over their dreams when they are in comas than they do normally."

"Right, but don't you find it interesting that his dream involved the two of you in particular in a very intimate situation?"

She shrugged. "Not really. I am the person with whom Booth spends most of his time, and it is only natural that I might naturally occupy his thoughts sometimes. As for being married, Booth places a high value on the institution of marriage and I am a sexually attractive female with whom he spends most of his time, so it makes sense that given his preoccupation with marriage, he might have projected that identity onto me while in his comatose state."

"You don't think it might be indicative of some kind of subconscious desire of his?"

"No, of course not. You know I hate psychology."

Sweets snorted. "And projecting an identity onto someone while they're in a coma isn't psychology? You're so desperate to rationalize this that you're resorting to the logical framework of a discipline you don't even believe in to organize your argument."

"I… am not."

"You so are," Sweets said dismissively. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Tell me honestly, Dr. Brennan, what do you think of Booth dreaming about being married to you?"

"I think… it explains a lot of things."

"What things?"

She hesitated. "He… tried to kiss me."

Sweets kept his face schooled into a neutral expression. "When was this?"

"One night when we were in his apartment, not long after his surgery."

"What were the circumstances?"

"We had just eaten dinner, and I was cleaning up. Booth said that since I had cooked I shouldn't clean, and he kept saying his couch was magical and I should sit on it. Naturally I told him that couches were not magical, but I obliged his request. And then he tried to kiss me."

"And how did that make you feel?" Sweets said.

She hesitated. "Confused," she admitted.

"About your feelings?" Sweets said sagely.

"No. About why he was doing that."

"What did you do when he tried to kiss you?"

"I asked him why he was doing that."

"And what did he say?"

"He said because he wanted to. And then when I said I didn't think that was very appropriate, he grew very whiny," Brennan recollected.

Sweets hid a smile. "You know, I have absolutely no trouble imagining that."

She fidgeted. "Sweets, can I ask you something?"

"Of course," he said, taken aback at her hesitancy.

"Do you think it's possible for someone who is in a coma to internalize something someone else told them while they are unconscious?"

"Possibly. There have been studies showing that coma patients who have someone talk to them tend to do better than patients who don't. Logically, that implies that the patient reacts to the external stimuli in some way, even if we don't know how or why."

Brennan nodded slowly. "Yes… I can see that that has a certain amount of logical integrity." She was relieved, to be honest. The entire situation with Booth's odd behavior had had her so on edge that anything remotely resembling a rational explanation was a welcome reprieve from an emotional weight she didn't fully understand.

Sweets watched her. "Dr. Brennan, did you say something to Booth while he was in a coma that you think may have influenced the content of the dream that he had?"

"Perhaps."

Sweets tried to restrain his eagerness. "What did you say?"

"I read some of a manuscript that I was working on to him."

Sweets digested this. "I see." He paused. "Wait, you think something in your manuscript made him think he was married to you?"

Brennan flushed. "I was writing a book about... ah, two characters, who are married to each other. And own a nightclub." Why was she so red? There's no way Sweets would be able to know that when she read to Booth she hadn't bothered changing the names of the people inspiring the characters. To him, they were just characters.

"That explains a lot, actually," Sweets said enthusiastically. "Fascinating how the physical realm influences the psychological realm so strongly, isn't it?"

She frowned. "Not really."

"So if he's remembering things wrong because of what I read him, will he get better?"

"I think he's already getting better. He's able to distinguish between the dream and the reality much more consistently with every passing day."

Brennan exhaled with relief. "That's good." The sooner Booth stopped calling her Iceland and kissing her like French people on the street, the better.


	5. Chapter 5

Brennan knocked on the door to his apartment and hovered in the hallway when he opened the door as though she was uncertain about whether or not she really wanted to come in.

"Hey, Bones," he said cheerfully. He surveyed her as she stood in front of him, irresolute. "Wow, you look amazing."

She frowned, startled out of her preoccupation by his unexpected comment. "What?" She looked down at her jeans and sweater. "I look just like I always do."

"Well, you happen to always look amazing."

"Technically, the word 'amazing' means to cause sudden surprise or wonder. Logically, I cannot always look amazing, or my appearance would not be surprising to you."

He twinkled at her. She found it very disconcerting when Booth twinkled at her. "I just mean you look great, Bones."

"Oh." She flushed, a little off-kilter. "Thank you."

Beat. "So what's up?"

"Up?" she repeated, unconsciously glancing at the ceiling in response.

He rolled his eyes. "Are you coming in, or what?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, feeling foolish. She stepped forward and moved past Booth into his apartment.

He watched her enter and raised his eyebrows. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine."

"So what's going on?"

"We need to talk," she said tersely.

"O-kaaay," he said, drawing the word out. "About what?"

"Sweets told me you thought we were married when you woke up from your coma," she blurted out.

Booth grew very still. "He told you about that?"

"Yes."

Booth swore. "I am going to kill that little rat bastard!"

"Why didn't you tell me, Booth?" she asked, trying to keep the vulnerability out of her voice and mostly failing.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I didn't think you'd want to know."

"Of course I want to know! You're my partner, Booth. You should have told me you had complications after the surgery. Your recovery affects me professionally." She paused. "And personally," she added reluctantly.

He regarded her uncertainly. "You're not freaked out?"

She ignored the question. "You don't have any control over what you dream about. Besides, it was probably my fault, anyway."

"Your fault?" he echoed disbelievingly. "How could me thinking we were married possibly be your fault?"

"Sweets thinks that when I read part of the manuscript I was working on to you while you were in a coma, you internalized part of what I read to you."

Booth processed this. "You wrote that you and I were married?"

Brennan's eyes shifted away from his. "It was just a story, Booth."

Man, he would pay good money to find out how that story ended. "Can I read it?"

"No. I deleted it."

"Why'd you delete it?"

This flummoxed her. "What?"

"Why did you delete it?"

"I—because it wasn't well written," she lied. It had in fact, been some of her best work to date.

"What do you mean, it wasn't well written? You're a great writer, how could it be badly written?"

"I couldn't get the plot to hang together right," she invented. "The ending was entirely too sentimental to fit into the tone of the rest of the novel."

" _You_ wrote something sentimental? Now, this I've got to hear. What happened?"

"Booth, what does it matter what I wrote? I told you, I deleted it!"

"Because if what you wrote is influencing my memories, knowing what happens in the story could help me figure out which of my memories are real or not!"

She deflated. He was right. He was absolutely right. "You really want to know what I wrote?" she said with a note of dread in her voice.

Booth nodded, not taking his eyes off her.

She looked away. "I wrote…it was a mystery. There were two main characters. A married couple. They owned a nightclub. There was a murder in the club and they had to solve the mystery because the police thought they were the ones that did it."

Booth cocked his head to the side. "A nightclub?" he said, sounding mystified.

She looked back at him. "You don't remember?"

"I was in a coma, Bones."

She looked down. "I know. I just thought… I couldn't think of a rational explanation. And when Sweets said hearing me read you the story may have caused you to get mixed up about your memories, it made certain things… make sense."

He ran his hand through his hair. "The main characters," he said slowly. "They're… like us? You and I?"

She nodded wordlessly.

He was silent for a long moment. "Did Sweets… sing?"

She looked at him sharply. "Yes."

"And Jared? He was there, too."

"Yes."

"And you and I were married." She could have sworn he was blushing. Perhaps he was remembering the scene in the bedroom in which the Booth and Brennan alter egos had engaged in some decidedly unrestrained lovemaking, she thought.

"The characters I created were married, yes," she said stiffly, a blush creeping up her own neck at the memory.

He smiled ruefully, as though he didn't quite know what to make of that, and then he froze. "You were pregnant," he breathed.

It wasn't a question and she didn't answer. Why, why, why had she ever decided to read that damn thing aloud?

Booth crossed to her in two big steps, and before she knew what was happening he placed one big, strong hand over her belly, as though feeling for phantom life within.

"You were pregnant," he said, his voice awed. He did not remove his hand. "You were pregnant, and you were _happy_. You were _married_ , and you were happy. Married… to me."

She didn't look at him. Her throat was dry, and when she spoke, it came out as a whisper. "It was a story."

"You _wrote_ the story. You wrote that you were with me, and we were happy."

"You're avoiding the question, Booth," she evaded his gaze. "Why didn't you tell me you thought we were married when you woke up?"

"Because I thought it would freak you out and cause you to put distance between us," he said simply. "Why didn't _you_ tell me that you had written that we were married?"

"I wouldn't have put distance between us," she protested.

"Bones, I tried to kiss you and you flew three thousand miles away for four weeks."

"That was for work," she said lamely. She hesitated. "And… I came back."

He stepped closer to her, and brought his hand up to her face. "Temperance. Why didn't you tell me about what you had written?"

She met his eyes and she knew the battle was lost. "Because—because… it was foolish. The whole book was just a series of nonsensical daydreams to distract me from the fact that you might die."

"I didn't die, Bones."

"I know."

"I didn't die," he repeated.

"You almost did," she whispered.

"I didn't, though."

"Twice."

He sighed, and stepped closer to her, wrapping his arms around her. "I'm sorry, Temperance."

She fought a lump in her throat, and clung to him tightly. "Rationally," she said, her voice thick, "you have nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. Twice."

"Please don't make me go through it again," she said, even though she knew it was absurd to ask him to do something over which he had no control.

"I'll try, Bones," he said simply. "I'll try." He held her head as she leaned against his shoulder, and she thought about how comforting the weight of his hand was in her hair.

They stood there for a long time. She thought about how she had once told Booth he should stop hugging her when she was scared.

She was glad he hadn't listened to her.

She spoke into his chest. "Booth?"

"Yeah?"

She swallowed. "Remember when I said I didn't believe in true love?"

"I remember every one of the thousand or so times you have told me this, yes," Booth said lightly, still cradling her head against his chest.

"No, I mean… when I came to your apartment, and I told you I was jealous because you and Angela and Hodgins and Cam believe in true love."

"You drank my good scotch. I remember."

"I'm afraid…"

"Afraid of what, Bones?"

"I'm afraid that I do, now." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He digested this. "You're afraid that you do… what?"

"I'm afraid that I…believe, now."

He grew very still. "Yeah?"

She nodded into his chest. "Yeah."

Slowly, mindlessly, he started rubbing circles on her back with the hand that wasn't in her hair, because he didn't know what else to do, and it felt right. "That's good, Bones."

"You think so?"

"It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"I guess,"—and he smiled, because he could hear the pout in her voice—"but I didn't know it was going to feel like this."

"Like what?"

"So… awful, and terrifying."

"You're saying loving me is scary and unpleasant?" he joked, and then froze, because he'd just taken it out of the hypothetical and gone ahead and said, 'You love me,' to Temperance Brennan, who barely even believed in love in the first place, and certainly hadn't said anything about loving him, of all people.

And then something amazing happened, except it somehow wasn't surprising, even though it was, because she was Temperance Brennan and she always spoke the truth. No matter the consequences: she did not flinch. "Not always," she said. Her head still leaned against him. "Sometimes it's nice. But when you die... or almost die, it's horrible."

"Yeah, well…" he cleared his throat. He couldn't believe he was finally going to say this to her, now, after holding back the words for so long. "Loving you is no picnic either."

She looked up with a frown. "You love me?" And it killed him how she sounded like she'd never considered this, as though it weren't one of the great constants of the universe, like it wasn't obvious to every person who ever saw him look at her.

"Yep."

Her eyes narrowed. "And by saying that loving me is no picnic, I assume you are employing metaphor to imply that loving me is unpleasant."

"Yeah, well, you drive me crazy sometimes when you rush headlong into dangerous situations without any regard to your own safety. And you're so goddamned stubborn sometimes you could try the patience of a saint. And," he glared at her, "I'm not wild about when you say things like 'Jesus was a zombie,' or tell me for like the millionth time that love is just a chemical reaction."

She opened her mouth to argue—of course—and he hastened to lay a finger on her lips to silence her. "But," he said, "pretty much everything else about you just dazzles me."

He cleared his throat and let his finger drop from her lips. "So yeah, Bones… I love you."

She frowned again. "Are you sure this isn't a product of your brain tumor? You could be being influenced by the memory of the relationship I described in my book."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you suggesting that you brainwashed me into loving you by reading me your book?"

She bit her lip, and it was so un-Brennan like on the one hand, and _so_ like her at the same time, not wanting to admit having had an irrational thought. "No," she said reluctantly. "Brainwashing, despite its widespread depiction in popular culture, is not possible."

He raised his eyebrows. "Do you want me to prove it to you anyway?"

Her breath caught in her throat, and she remembered the scene in the book as he leaned over her with those smiling eyes and said those words, and she couldn't quite bring herself to answer. She felt a flush creeping up her cheeks, and she just stood there, immobilized, uncertain as to his intentions.

"Of course you do," he said, with half a sigh, and half a smile. "Because you are Brennan, and you do not accept anything without a firm basis in fact and an adequate amount of empirical evidence."

"What kind of evidence can you reasonably use to demonstrate an emotion that is impossible to quantify?" she said skeptically.

"Easy." He lifted one finger. "The first time I met you, you were wearing a blue blouse."

She frowned. "What does what I was wearing five years ago have to do with providing evidence of love?"

"The evidence is the fact that I can remember that five years later. And that I remember that I couldn't stop staring at you because it matched your eyes so perfectly. I'd never seen anyone with eyes that color blue before. You were mesmerizing."

"I do recall you staring at me," Brennan remembered. "I thought there was something on my face or something."

"Nope. Cullen said he was going to have some squint who looked at skeletons all day come meet with me, and then he blindsided me with this beautiful genius doctor that apparently I was going to work with every day."

"I thought you were very physiologically pleasing to the eye, as well," she offered.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Thought?"

"Think," she clarified. "Why are you shooting for compliments, Booth? You know I find you physically attractive."

He smiled. "Fishing, Bones. It's fishing for compliments. And is there anything wrong with checking that someone you're attracted to thinks you're easy on the eyes as well?"

She flushed. "I suppose not."

"Good. Can I continue with my evidence now?"

"Go ahead."

"Okay. Number two, I know that when we have Chinese food, you always steal the last of the lo mein, your favorite Thai dish is the green curry with vegetables, and that your favorite kind of pizza is that weird pesto with sundried tomatoes from that place on Eighth Street, which is just unnatural, having pizza without pizza sauce," he said with a shake of his head. "And it always creeps onto my half and taints the flavor of the pepperoni and sausage."

"Booth, any sauce that goes on pizza is pizza sauce, therefore pesto is pizza sauce," she said, exasperated, as though they hadn't had this argument a thousand times before. "And if you mind it getting on your side so much why do you always eat the last piece when I don't finish it? And," she added as an afterthought. "I don't see what my food choices have to do with you proving that you love me."

"It's not the food choices, Bones," he said patiently. "It's the fact that I care enough to remember what your favorites are."

"Well, we've eaten those dishes together dozens of times; remembering which ones I like is merely a testament to your observant nature."

Booth ignored her. "Number three, being with you is the best part of my day. When I'm with you, I feel centered. And just… so happy to be alive, because if God or the universe or whatever produced someone as brilliant and fascinating and loyal as you, I mean… then that pretty much makes it all worthwhile, for me. The murders, the doubt, all of it."

She didn't know what to say. "Booth… I feel the same way. About you, I mean. I value your strength and integrity, and your courage. There are so many things about you that I don't understand about you and your predilection to act based on your gut, but somehow those things that I don't understand about you are what I find most stimulating about you." A crinkle appeared in her brow. "Which does not make sense."

He smiled and took her hand, enjoying the feel of her fingers against his palm. "Sure it does, Bones. That's what love's all about."

"Well, it's very…confusing."

He tugged her closer to him. "Bones?"

"Yes?" she said, letting her hand fall against his chest to balance herself as he pulled her tight to him.

"I'm going to kiss you now."

"That sounds like… an acceptable course of action," she replied, a little dazed, because he was moving closer to her, and she couldn't take her eyes off his mouth.

His lips touched hers, and he brought his hand to cradle the side of her face, and he kissed her softly. She was totally unprepared for the tenderness with which he kissed her. Part of her wanted to grab him and turn the kiss into something more sexual so that it would feel more familiar to her, but instead she found that something was rising in her chest, something sweet and painful, and it was rising into her throat, and suddenly she was on the verge of crying but she kissed him back instead, giving it back to him, that sweet, painful feeling, and that somehow made it easier to bear.

Booth was the one who ended the kiss. She almost cried out at the loss of him but that would be an absurd thing to do, so overdramatic, so she didn't.

Booth exhaled shakily. "Boy, when you kiss someone you just let it all go, don't you Bones?"

She was at a loss. "I let it all go?" She considered this. "I don't believe that is accurate, Booth. I was holding on to your jacket quite tightly for the duration of that kiss, and I did not have any instinct to let you go."

He chuckled, and she couldn't help notice how attractive he was when he laughed, how dear his smile had come to be. And she didn't exactly know what he was laughing at, but she found herself smiling uncertainly in return.

"I just meant you don't hold back," he explained, taking her hand in his.

She frowned. "Why should I hold back?"

"You shouldn't," he assured her with a grin. "Your instinct was right. You should hold on tight. And I'm planning to do the same."

Her gaze dropped to their joined hands, and she smiled wistfully. "I like it when you smile at me," she confessed.

His grin widened. "Yeah?"

"Yes. I know I lack certain social graces," she said awkwardly. "But when you smile at me… I feel like I'm doing something right, in that moment."

"You know, Bones, I smile at you quite a lot," he pointed out, still smiling. "What do you think that says about you?"

"I don't know."

"It means you must be a lot better at social interaction than you think."

She considered this. "Only with you, though. No one else smiles at me as much as you do."

"Well, that's cause they only see the rational scientist part of you. They don't see all of you, like I do."

"That's a very nice thing to say." She frowned. "I think."

"It is nice," he assured her. "And you know what? I'm going to say a lot of nice things to you from now on."

Again, she just looked confused. "Why?"

This was it. He was just going to lay it out on the table. "Because we're together now, and that means I don't have to hold anything back anymore," he said boldly.

"We're…together?" She didn't sound horribly against the idea.

So that meant she was practically on board. He'd only have to do a little convincing. "Yeah."

Pause. "I don't know what that means."

"It means that if I want to touch your hair, I get to go ahead and touch your hair, and that when work is over I won't have to make up lame excuses to come hang out with you." That pretty much sounded like his idea of perfection, actually, now that he came to think of it.

She was quiet for a long moment. "Do you think the FBI will still let us work together?" she said in a small voice.

He exhaled in relief. He was in good shape if that was all she was worried about. "I do. We're the best they've got. They're not going to want to mess with that just because we're in love with each other." It was a bold statement, and he could hardly believe he'd actually had the guts to say it. But sometimes with Bones you had to just put something out there and let her get used to the idea before expecting her to react. And if you could cloak that thing you didn't want her to react to right away in reassurance, so much the better.

She exhaled. "That's good."

"But even if they split us up," he continued, "we'll still be together in all the ways that matter."

"I'm nervous," she admitted.

"About what?"

"I don't… I'm not good at relationships. I'm afraid of driving you away without meaning to," she said.

His heart clutched, that she thought it was possible he would ever leave her. "That's not going to happen, Bones. You're stuck with me." He swallowed because while what he was about to give voice to was true, it was kind of a big deal to say out loud—"Forever. We're going to date for a while, and then I'm going to move into your apartment, cause it's way better than mine, and after a few years or so I'm going to wear down all your arguments and convince you to marry me," he said with a certainty he didn't quite feel. He was certain about the forever, of course, but the marriage thing—well, she was damn stubborn, and he wasn't positive he was ever going to convince her to make an honest man out of him. But it wouldn't matter, because they would be together.

She pondered this. "Does that mean there is going to be more kissing?"

"Most definitely," he said with a laugh, a little shocked that his declaration hadn't prompted a barrage of arguments, and more than a little pleased that she seemed pretty interested in the kissing. "In fact, there's going to be a lot more than kissing."

"I think I will enjoy that," she said matter of factly, and he grinned again, because that was just such a Bones thing to say.

"Me, too."

"What will happen if we fight, though, Booth?"

"We _will_ fight, Bones, that's part of being a couple. But we'll make up. That's what the dream is all about."

"The coma dream?"

"Yeah."

"You mean my novel."

"Fine, whatever, you know what I mean."

"But my novel…your dream… is about solving a murder."

"No, they're not. They're about both of us, deep down, wanting the same things. And the most important part of that is that we each want to be in each other's lives more than anything else, and we'll do anything to protect each other."

There was a long pause, and then- "Okay."

"Okay? What do you mean, 'okay?' I make one of the most romantic declarations of all time, and all you have to say is 'okay?'"

"Okay, I accept your evidence," she said.

He blinked. "Really? Cause it's not based on logic, and you never accept anything that isn't based on—"

She leaned forward and kissed him again. "Booth, nothing about you or your role in my life is based on logic. It's one of those elements of the universe for which science has not yet discovered an explanation. But I think investigating it will be very interesting, and I find myself quite content in contemplating spending the foreseeable future doing so."

Wow. Bones pretty much just said she would be happy experimenting with him for the rest of her life. That was pretty much the be all end all of romantic declarations for Temperance Brennan. He grinned at her and raised an eyebrow. "So is this investigation going to involve more kissing?" he asked, echoing her earlier question.

She gave him one of those brilliant smiles he was so fond of, and grabbed his lapels again. She repeated his own words back to him. "Most definitely."


End file.
